


Hijacked

by opalmatrix



Category: Alliance-Union - C. J. Cherryh
Genre: Gen, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Prisoner of War, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: They all knew something was up at this lonely nullpoint, but no one on Norway expected to find a Mazianni base





	Hijacked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/gifts).



> For my fellow CJC fan. Lord, did this take on a life of its own! Beta by sevenall.

The first meal after a jump, the noise in _Norway_ 's Rider Mess was no more terrible than usual, but it was different, Ben thought, as he joined the line. It rose and fell a lot more. There were more disagreements, because people were just that much out of it and misunderstanding each other, but no one had the energy for a real argument, either.

Just as well.

They'd jumped to Nin's Point, chasing rumors of Mazianni presence. It was supposed to be nothing but a dead system, asteroids and debris around a barely radiating dwarf star, but spotters had noticed that for some reason, there was traffic on that heading. There'd been no updates when they came out of jump, so people were calm and paying attention to the menu. 

"God," said Meg, her tone reverent. "Are those real eggs, Chelly?"

"Yes ma'am," said the grill cook, with a grin. "This is the last of 'em. Good thing you turned up just now. Real spinach, too. And cheese: Cyteen's best, via Pell. Omelet?"

"That'd be optimum!"

Ben watched as Chelly put Meg's omelet together and then pointed her spatula at Dekker. "How 'bout you, Dek?"

"Omelet looks good. Mushrooms and cheese?" 

"Eggs," said Ben, still disgusted by the idea after all these years. He snagged a Q-sausage sandwich—made from 100% sterile machine-grown fungus, thank you very much— then added a pastry on his tray. "What about you, Sal?" She was looking over the breakfast sandwich fillings.

"We got those fish patties you liked, Aboujib," said Itoro, from the next food station. "Dill, parsley, green onions."

"With that pickle sauce?" asked Sal. Just the names of all those green things made her liven up. He still didn't get it.

"Yeah, tartar sauce." Itoro put together a toasted sandwich bun and a patty for her, with a dollop of sauce. "Enjoy!"

Ben wrinkled his nose. "Do me a favor and have a slug of orange after you eat that," he said.

Sal scowled at him and then winced. Her hand rose to pick at the Neoderm along her jawline.

"Stop that, girlfriend," ordered Meg. Sal's face went blank, and she grabbed her tray and strode off, not bothering to pick up her orange or her coffee.

Meg pursed her lips and put two cups of juice on her tray. "Ben, go after her."

"I'll go," offered Dek. Meg had him so whipped,

"Nyet, negatory, boychik. You aren't the one who told her not to kiss him after eating her new favorite thing. You go get us some cake and coffee. We're going to need 'em. Move it, Ben."

Fuck, why was he always the bad guy? But the hell with it. "On it," he said and followed Sal.

She had grabbed a table by the wall and was sitting with her back to the rest of the room. Ben snagged the chair opposite with one foot and thunked his tray down. Sal looked up as he sat. "What're you staring at?" she growled. She was trying not to frown because it hurt the healing skin on her face.

"Just the sexiest partner I ever had in my bed," he said. It was probably a little over the top, but this felt like one of those situations.

"Yeah?" she shot back. "Even with all this?" She pulled at the v-neck of her stretchy sweater, revealing more Neoderm down her chest and along her side.

"Yeah, damn it! Cover up, I'm a serious soft touch after jump!"

She dropped her angry gaze and put her clothes to rights. Ben kept his eyes on her, ignoring the curious glances he was getting. "Wish I'd been ahead of you when that circuit blew," he said.

"Can't run that time back again. Laws of physics, they are what they are," she said, and when she looked up, her eyes were brighter and her mouth wanted to smile. "So you were going to throw me over 'cause of some pickle sauce?"

Familiar territory, now. "Sal, I just can't eat that stuff. You know that." He gave her sandwich a longer looks. "What does it taste like?"

"PIckles are sweet and sour, rest of the sauce is creamy. Goes good with the fried taste, Want a bite?"

"Um, not right now."

She laughed softly and took a big bite herself.

Kady and Dek showed up then. Meg gave them a once-over like she was looking for damage and nodded as she settled in next to Ben. "Think we got everything you needed. Have a look-see, though, OK?"

Sal took her orange and then looked over at Dekker's cake choices. "Mmm, brown sugar cinnamon, that's the good stuff. Thanks."

Dek handed Ben his coffee without a word. Ben laughed at him. "She didn't lay a finger on me, Dek-boy, Not one bruise."

"Yeah, I can tell. Remember, I'm an expert in getting beat up." He sat down across from Meg and handed her the berry pastry, then took a forkful of omelet.

"Your sense of humor is so warped," said Ben.

"Attention!" blared the loudspeaker, and everyone jumped. "All personnel, stand by for briefing in five. If you're not in mess, report to the nearest briefing location," said Graff's amplified voice. "I repeat, all-personnel briefing in five minutes."

"Whoa," said Ben. "Can't be Mazianni."

"No, it's not 'battle stations,'" said Meg.

"Huh," said Sal. "Didn't think we were going to find anything interesting this fast."

The noise level in the big space rose to a peak, everyone grabbing chairs and speculating on what the scans had found. 

Dekker turned his chair around in time to see the cover panel sliding up on the big wall monitor. The screen went bright, then dark, then broke up and resumed with a picture of the captain. "Good morning," Mallory said, her dark eyes as calm as though she were welcoming them to Pell for a spell of leave. "As we all know, a couple of our more reliable rimrunners have been reporting Mazianni ships coming and going through Nin's. Alliance intelligence officials suspected a supply drop or a meeting point. Now that we've cleared the edge of the Nin debris disk, we've found something else."

The image shifted, showed Nin's dying star, the disk of debris looking like a long oval in this view, and something else against the background of other stars. The image zoomed slowly, starting to erode as the focus shifted, but when it stopped, the was no doubt.

Ben said, "That an effin'—"

"A small station," Mallory's voice confirmed from the speakers. "Engineer Mishra reports that it's of hybrid design, showing similarities to both Alpha-era stations and later structures like Mariner. Estimated population capacity similar to Alpha. We can't get much more at this distance. Additional investigation is warranted, Status Yellow Two. Go about your business, but remain prepared for sudden moves. We'll deliver briefings as we gather more info." The view of the strange little station winked out, and the captain regarded them somberly from the screen for a couple second before she signed off.

"Whoa," said Sal. "How the hell did they build a space station without anyone noticing?"

"Space is pretty damn big," said Ben. "We can't patrol all of it. Not even Union can keep up with it. And merchanters don't run without profit, so it's not like they'd check out a null point that goes nowhere."

"Remember Graff, that lecture he gave 'bout the exploring new mass points? Bien spooky," Meg put in.

"Spooky doesn't half cover it," said Dekker. Ben nodded. It had been so weird listening to that explanation from _Graff_ , who'd basically held their hands and wiped their noses during the Hellburner project. But it had been fascinating too: brut complex numbers.

"Rimrunners are all crazies," muttered Sal. "Jumping blind into a new null point isn't even to think about." She downed the rest of her coffee and thumped the mug onto her tray, 

"Well, what's next, Dek?" asked Meg.

He shrugged. "Unsteady little situation, right? Want to do an instrument run-through with _Freya_? Then we can hit the gym before lunch."

" _Freya_ 's fine," Ben scoffed. "Saqa's a total tightass about the maintenance."

"I'll go," said Meg, as Dek got up. Sal got up too. They were about to leave when Ben gave an exasperated huff and joined them. "Talk about spooks," he muttered.

The instrument check was clean, as Ben had predicted, but it seemed to calm Dekker down. Dek was like a totally different person with _Freya_ , none of that lost-little-kid thing that made Meg and Sal mother him. He was _on_ when he was in the pilot's seat and gave crisp orders that made sense.

Still no news from the top. They went and did their gym time, Sal slowly and with a medic supervising, the rest of them pushing until they were winded. Ben hung back while Sal talked to the medic. "How's that?" Sal him, quietly.

"Pretty good. Just remember you can't hurry with electrical burns. I'd say you're 85% at this point. If you get a battle stations call, you. could go."

"Hope it won't come to that. Thanks."

Lunch, and folks were settling down. Card games broke out, along with video and sim games ranging from chess to monster-killing hack-and-slash. He'd won a beer off Almarshad in a blue-sky vehicle-racing sim and was enjoying it when the speaker system crackled to life again.

"All hands ... ." Graff said, engaged and _on_. This should be something interesting, thought Ben. "No enemy ships spotted. In fact, station looks all but deserted. Radiating enough heat and power to show it's powered up, but no traffic at all, no change in lighting over time. Again, additional investigation warranted. Tac Ops, special briefing in 15 minutes. Remaining personnel, as you were. We're establishing orbit around the station."

Tactical Operations included all four rider core crews, their technical chiefs, senior _Norway_ Helm and Comm, and the marine officers. Crew members who weren't involved were clearing Rider Mess. Their own senior techs came over to them: Molina and Pan from a poker game, Kuang with her reader tucked under one elbow, and Addicks hurrying in from the hall, on the tail of several grim-looking marines. "What's up, lieutenant?" Pan asked Dek.

"Not a clue." Dek looked awkward, like it was a problem that he didn't have an answer for them.

"Take it easy, mes enfants," said Meg. "Lieutenant commander'll level with us."

Right on cue, Graff came into the room, followed by a couple of ship techs: Mishra from general engineering and one of small team of pure scientists on loan from Pell, Miri Bourne. "Good evening, crew," he said, looking around and apparently doing a nose count. "Looks like we're missing a few faces ... there we go. At ease but listen. We have something of interest to show you." 

Bourne clicked the main screen into life again, now showing the little station clearly. "So: station's dead asleep. Estimation of habitat temperature: 280K. A little chilly if anyone was actually living there but fine for most heated-hold cargo, well above freezing. At a guess, Science says likely the Mazianni don't have enough personnel to keep the thing running, so for now they turn out the lights when they leave, Mishra hypothesizes that the station might have actually been started shortly after Alpha, by one of the early missions that were assumed lost, and that perhaps components have been added from stations that Union blew during the War, before the rebuilding efforts started. There might be all sorts of goods we can use in there, not to mention that we need to blow the place so they don't have a base. But most interesting ... ."

Bourne did something with a remote. The view of the station on the big screen rotated and then zoomed in. On the edge of the cylinder, at the near docking station, two oval shapes showed clearly: rider ships, docked belly-on. They could pick out the lettering of the designations: _Rome_. _Sekhmet_. Names from old carriers, thought Ben. _Italy_ , maybe, for one. "Holy shit," he muttered, just part of a wave of reaction around the room. Then he stood and waved a hand over his head.

"Pollard," acknowledged Graff.

"Are the riders functional? Can Science tell?"

"No, they can't tell from this far out. Which brings me to my next point. I don't need to tell you how much we could use a spare. _Odin_ 's still flyable, all credit to the O&M crew, but she took some severe damage in the last engagement."

Murmurs of agreement from the assembly, and people thumped Quevado and his crew on the back and shoulders, offering hushed sympathy.

"So. We need an expeditionary force. Marines for protection, techs for station checkout and to estimate the most effective way to cripple or even destroy the facility, and ridership crew, to take one or both riders out here and to fly cap. Ship docking chiefs and engineers will have to improvise if both of them are worth saving. Fuel on the double jump back to Pell may be a concern for that too."

Ben nodded. Any carrier could ferry a single spare rider. Two would be a first. And _Norway_ had no spare rider berths: they had never lost a rider.

Su-Bin from Almarshad's crew rose and waved, then: "How many rider crews are we talking about, this expedition?"

"Two riders, one as shuttle. The shuttle will carry a couple more rider techs and pilots to evaluate those ships out there, as well as the marines and station experts. We suggest _Thor_ and _Fenris_. _Freya_ 's still down one key crew member at the moment, and as stated earlier, _Odin_ 's not at her best. That leaves _Freya_ and _Odin_ crew as the swing team to inspect and move out the salvaged ship or ships. Any comments on these choices? Speak up; you're the experts."

Su-Bin pumped a fist at her _Thor_ crewmates as she sat down. "We're game, sir," Almarshad called out, and _Fenris_ 's pilot said the same. Quevado's crew exchanged glances with Dekker's. Dek's breath made an eager little sound, and Ben muttered "Yeah!" Sal looked dismayed.

"Sir," said Quevado then. "If Dekker, Kady, and Pollard go out there, that leaves _Freya_ un-crewed if we get visitors, and she's in better shape, like you said. We're the logical choice."

"We do have one additional priority in team choices," said Graff, after a moment. "Computer techs say that if they have their choice, they want Pollard out there, in case the station systems are locked down properly. They may not be: station tech isn't a Mazianni specialty, not like Union station killers. But they said Pollard might be a crucial asset. If worst comes to worst, the Quevado team will take _Freya_ out."

Dekker was looking wacked out at the idea of someone else taking out _Freya_. Ben thought it was only reasonable. They'd run this drill at dock several times: one of many disaster scenarios _Norway_ had prepared for various configurations after a combat mishap. Ben watched Dekker pull himself together. "Meg," he said. "You want to stay with?"

She looked at Sal, whose face was ashen. "Guess I'd better," she said. Ben could see she'd love to be part of the away team, doing a piloting job that might show off a top-notch hand, but she and Sal went way back: she'd want to keep her oldest friend company in case the worst happened and the mission was lost. 

"That's my order, then," he said. "Ben, we're going."

Both of them stood, then. Graff looked them over and nodded. "Trainees Tanaka and Roth will join you on the boarding team, as reserves should they be needed. As for the marines ... ."

Sal buried her face in her hands, and Meg slung an arm around her shoulders.

★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★

It was a long walk from where _Thor_ had docked to station central and then back out again to the abandoned riders at dock on the opposite side. The station that they were already calling Nin's was chilly and dim. Place was so raw it hurt to look at, thought Ben. The only places that had proper wall paneling all through were Station Central and dockside control. Even the living quarters has some walls were bare metal with conduits for power, water, and heat plainly exposed. "Bird said it looked like this when R2's Helldeck was being built," he said. "Not many good places for take-hold in an emergency."

"Look for tween-decks access hatches," said Dek. "Here's one." He gestured to what Ben had taken for nothing but a maintenance access panel. Ben squatted down and examined it. It had a palm-lock panel. He couldn't imagine that it was locked to any particular person; probably just needed a warm hand so it didn't pop open at random.

"Come on," said Dek. "Those riders won't check themselves out."

Two _Norway_ techs already had the doors to dockside control open and were poking gingerly at the system consoles. "Computers are functional, lieutenant, just sleeping," said one. Ben recognized her: Bellamy was the name. "Show me," he said.

She indicated the console, and Ben could see that there were pasted-on labels below a lot of the controls. _Ship dock sec._ read one. He squatted down and looked underneath. There were a couple of small drawers there, not secured at all. He opened one and pulled out, of all things, a printed manual. Just a paperfax document, a little ragged and marked up by hand. "Here," he said. "Wackos. Tres sloppy. See if that matches what you got."

"Lordy," muttered Bellamy, appalled. She tapped and traced the screen of her reader, then put it down on a clear console surface and started comparing pages of the printout to her screen. The other tech, learning by example, was searching under the other consoles. "This one's locked," he muttered. He reached into one of the many pockets of his coveralls and pulled out a little lamp with a flexible neck, and some small tools. A few moments later there was a click, and he gave a little grunt of satisfaction. 

"More papers, folks," he said. Dekker took them and sat down in a clean but cheap-looking swivel seat. "Oh, wow. Fueling and fluids system controls. They sure didn't expect station professionals in here."

"For sure," muttered Ben. He looked out the combat-grade plex windows at the nearest dock access. The system board that should have showed a ship name was dark, but someone had scrawled _Sekhmet_ on the metal wall next to the lock in jagged half-meter-tall letters. It looked like they'd used grease pencil. "What a crap job, the whole thing. Should make it easier to get in."

"No such, sorry, sir," said Bellamy. "Says here, 'Commanding or executive officers of Fleet ships will provide access codes for docking and ships supply systems.'"

"Let me look at that thing," said Ben. He sat down with it and started flipping pages. Bellamy and her partner (Popov, said his name tag) were looking over the other boards, muttering notes into their readers and taking images. "Stupid, stupid," muttered Ben, skimming furiously. "Oh. Hey. Have you found the public address console?"

"Right here, Mr. Pollard," said Popov. It was the board nearest the door, a station for which easy access took precedence over security.

'Switch with me," said Ben. He settled into the chair and brought the panel up, his fingers dancing over the soft keys as soon as the display came alive. Oh yeah. Union-style security tech. He silently thanked the merchanters who'd brokered the last information exchange with Union. This code: that would override the login field. Hot damn, yeah, baby. Uh hmm, hmmm ... wha was that? Maybe ... .

He eased a crick in his neck. "How're you doing, Ben?" said Dekker. He sounded edgy.

Ben looked around, Bellamy was gone. Popov seemed to be doing a game on his reader, the lazy scut. And there were half a dozen marines milling around on the dock with Tanaka and Roth looking lost in the middle of them. "What the hell?" he asked Dekker.

"You've been at that an hour plus. Bellamy went to help with the life support controls. There's no one on the station but us, according to the marines."

Hell, he hated feeling like _he_ was the moonbeam. "Just another couple minutes." He flexed his fingers, aware now that they were stiff. Popov came over to watch, dropping his reader into a thigh pocket. "Here we go."

Couple more overrides. Hell yeah, he was into the account manager access. Tap, tap, tap ... five new accounts, all with bullshit names: the Luna wall-ball team Dek hated, Sal's fave cocktail back in the Hellburner days, one of Bird's Shakespeare characters, that glam restaurant at Sol 1, his favorite vid game when he was twelve. Passwords for all, triple quick. Done. "Dek, tell 'em stand by for security unlock on the _Sekhmet_. She shows normal pressure inside."

Dek gaped at him, then jumped up and shouted out the door at the marines. They fell back in an orderly way: clearly they were experienced at docking duty. The ridership trainees joined them in the control room. Ben logged in with the account that he had configured as a dockmaster. "Pops, you capiche the dockmaster menus? Get that lock open?"

"Piece of easy, lieutenant. Let me at it."

Ben changed places and watched the man drive. There was always something to learn. "Here we go," said Popov, a few screens in, highlighting a row on a very short list. "Stand by, unlock in 3. 3, 2, ... .."

There was a dull clank from the dockside, then a very small whoosh of displaced air: _Sekhmet_ 's pressure may have been normal, but it wasn't in 100% agreement with the station. The marines stepped forward to unbolt the access hatchway. Ben tapped Popov on the shoulder. "Get your reader in receiving mode; mine's BP7623FOdw. I want to give you the Word on the master accounts I just set up,"

The little data transfer was done by the time the marines were yelling for him and Dek. They jogged across the decking. Now they could see the other accessways: one occupied by _Rome_ , and the other apparently empty. No zip line system on this all-purpose dock: they simply followed a couple of the marines through a narrow accessway that brought them out into the tech control room, tilted 90° in this position. Ben ran the standard clean-start sequence on the wall panel, as though they were a relief crew: things hummed to life, including the main lights. And the heat: shit, it was cold in here. There were some obvious scorch marks on the walls, and some of the seats near there didn't match the rest in either color or design details. The scan techs would need to go over things in detail to get a full status. "Get Alfs and Fontana," Dek said to one of the marines, and the remaining three of them climbed a wall ladder into the core control room.

Ben hauled himself into the longscanner's station, laying on his back in this position: just a little more extreme than the normal set-up for sep. Control surfaces looked worn but clean. His fingers danced over the controls, again like a relief crewman setting up for a test shift. All major systems were running, but there were telltales of less than optimal connections on several feeder scan channels. Probably the replacements in the damaged section. And more than that: "Fuel's only 10%, Dek. Most of the hydraulics and such are better: almost half."

"Copy that," said Dek, who was running his own drills on the pilot's controls. "First priority, get our own IDs and macros into the boards. Fuel's next. Can Popov run that setup from control?"

"Bet he can. Or Bellamy. I gave 'em that raggy-ass manual, and they look to know the basics already." He turned to the remaining marine, who was hanging on the ladder and scanning all around regular, with the patience of a Union tank baby. Not that a damn thing else could be in here with them in this small space. "You want to tell your squad to interface with Tech Popov or Bellamy and get this rig fueled? And have those rider juniors round up our scan techs."

"Yes sir." The marine saluted and went back down to the dock accessway. Any Fleet or ex-Fleet docking squad knew how to fuel: Ben had no concerns with that.

For some time, it was just the two of them, running checks: aux engine status, comms, attitude controls, emergency fuel tank. Ben had moved on to the weapons station and Dek to the co-pilot's when Ben suddenly looked up and said, "Where the hell did those guys go?"

Dek checked the time on the board he was prepping, flinched and checked his own reader. He caught Ben's eye, and then both of them rushed to put everything in standby and scramble back down the ladder and out the accessway. 

The docks were empty, but now that they were in the clear, away from _Sekhmet_ 's shielding, their comlinks were buzzing. Ben tapped his into his ear and heard _Mazianni dropped into the system ... one carrier, two freighters ... Norway personnel go for Thor dock, prepare to evacuate!_

"Crap!" Dekker was white around the eyes. Ben sprinted for the dockside control office, Dekker on his heels.

The consoles were just as they'd left them. No sign of the paper manuals: presumably Bellamy and Popov were taking them off the station. Ben dropped into the chair he'd left. Popov had signed out properly. Ben closed his eyes for a second, remembering, then resumed with the master admin account he'd set up. First thing was to wreck the controls for locking ships at dock ... .it had been on his list, but it had top priority now.

_Carrier IDed as Australia,_ advised _Norway_ comm in his ear. _Riders deployed ... Sydney and Perth heading stationward ... Fenris, engage defense, cover boarding our personnel ... ._

Footsteps pounding down the corridor. Two of _Norway_ 's marines, in full combat armor, showed up outside the office. "Get out of here, man! C"mon," shouted one of them, a corporal by his armor markings.

"Just a sec!" hissed Ben. "Making sure Thor can pull out!" He was doing a few other things too, but there was no point in trying to explain.

"Fuck," said the other marine. "Let's just hold the corridor, Zhang."

It seemed like only a few minutes later that the comm plug hissed to life again. _Australia rider Sydney making dock. Fenris and Perth exchanging fire. Thor personnel, report, loading status?_

The answer came back: _Missing Pollard and Dekker, plus Tac Squad 10A._

More feet pounding down the corridor. Ben looked up, but the corporal said, "They're ours. You finished? We need to get out of here. That rider that's docking probably has their marines."

Ben pounded in a few more commands, then wrapped things up. Anyone coming in after him was going to have a hell of a time. The squad of eight marines organized themselves around him and Dek, and they started toward the opposite docks at a steady lope.

_Norway coming under fire,_ advised Comm, shortly after they passed station center. _Norway crew on station, take shelter! Avoid green dock - Thor commencing emergency undock!_

"Shit!" moaned the marine behind them. There was a blow that shook the station, and emergency alarms went off. Ben grabbed Dekker's arm without even thinking, bracing for vacuum. But sense reasserted itself as a series of crashes came from much closer ahead: section seals slamming into place.

"Hell, corp," said Zhang. "What now? We're cut off."

The corporal pivoted, light on his power-armored legs. "You guys got access to one of those riders, right?"

"Yeah," said Dekker. "But ... ."

"They don't know you're here, they've only seen us. They aren't in central control yet: no surveillance. Run for the rider." And then, as they both hesitated, "Do it!"

They ran. A fusillade of shots went off behind them, and they couldn't help but look.

"Why're they shooting out the ceiling?" breathed Dekker.

Ben grabbed him, pulled him along. "Keep, running, Moonbeam! They're covering for us—chaff."

Here was _Sekhmet_ 's access. Dek pulled himself together and unsealed the hatch. They leaped in, and Dekker staggered off the end of the accessway and took a tumble into the tech control room. Ben heard several loud thumps and a gasped "Hell!"

"Fuck, Moonbeam! What kind of neo shit was that!"

"Get the lock!" called Dekker.

Man had a point, head case or no. Ben pulled the hatch door inward, latched it, then safety-locked it. _Sekhmet_ seemed to take a breath as the automatic seals went into place and the air shifted to recirculation. Ben went to look for his partner.

Dekker was sitting on what was normally the back wall of the tech room, one knee drawn up, probing his own scalp with shaking fingers. "You break anything?" asked Ben.

"Just a seat back." God, Dek's sense of humor. He was trying to smile, the little wacko. And yeah, one of those seats was never going to be the same.

For a few minutes they just crouched there, expecting to have _Australia_ marines trying the lock, at least. Dekker finally staggered to his feet. "Where d'you think you're going?" said Ben.

"First aid kit."

That made half sense. "Lie down, you just whacked your head." Ben found the panel for the little supply cache and got it open. Most of the supplies didn't apply to a guy who'd just beaten the crap out of himself by taking a 2-meter drop onto a fixed seat, but there were a couple of insta-cold packs and a therma-cap sheet. He got Dek situated flat on floor that was actually a wall with cold packs on his head and shoulder and the sheet over the rest, in case he had any notions of going into shock. 

"Stay put for a while," Ben ordered. "If you feel better after that, you can look over the food situation. Here's the locker. Feels maybe half full. I'm going up front,... up _top_ to try to get some info on what's going on out there."

He climbed up the wall ladder and settled into the co-pilot's chair, with his reader on his chest. The cockpit position felt wrong: this was Meg's seat. But co-pilot had most of the non-combat information accessible form her board, unless the techs were running it. _Sekhmet_ 's fuel was at 19%; she was still drawing. He wondered how long that would last. Someone would eventually think of the manual shut-off: station probably needed all the fuel it could get. He wondered, for a moment, whether they even had skimmers. If not, they might want to reverse the pumps, draw fuel out of _Sekhmet_. Not to think about that. _Mind on business, Benjy._

He put the board into maintenance mode, then got it to accept input from his reader. Not easy, but he knew how to make it work. There. Now he could actively work back into the station systems to which they were connected, override some buffers ... . Sound came first, from the dockside control room,: "... what the hell?'

"Did you say something?" called Dekker.

"Nyet, no. Just listening to the situation at the dockside control. Might even be able to get some video."

"What're they saying?"

"Bitching about what we might have been up to, in there." No point in worrying Captain Moonbeam about the fuel thing, He worked some more. Data throughput was for shit: not surprising. Finally he achieved some grainy, jerky vid. Guys in armor were milling about. Some of them were still pointing guns in random directions. The view was from the security camera outside the control room, so it didn't exactly go with the sound, which was from the dockmaster's console. There were heaps of something on the floor of the corridor. _Shit._. The squad of _Norway_ marines that had been protecting him and Dek, Zhang and the rest: dead.

For a moment, he thought he might lose his last meal. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for a minute. Maybe some of them had been captured? He didn't feel like counting bodies. Or body parts.

The reader spoke again: someone in the control room gave an order to get a tech in there. _Not going to help,_ thought Ben, feeling a little better. That reminded him: "Hey, Dekker, how's the food situation?"

"Bad. Most of what's here is past use-by date."

Crap. "What about water?"

Noises of Dek moving around. "The tank looks a little scummy but it's filling up. Draws from the fuel system, I think? That's how ... ."

Ben put his reader back into the pocket and climbed back down. Dekker looked like crap.

"Let's just eat and crash," Ben said. It looked like Dekker had made a useful sort-out of the food. Protein bars, only a few months overdue for a throw out, were the main thing. Some packets of dried fruit pieces. Huh. That reminded him: "These things have a head, right?" 

Dekker looked confused for a moment, but: "Yeah. Sometimes the techs have to use it. They don't have our kind of suit." 

He meant the techs didn't have the built-in pee pad unit. Lucky them. "Probably by the water." Ben poked at the paneling; one part slid back. "Wow. That's like, more than cozy." If you had to sit, you'd sit sideways, and the door didn't really have room to close while you were there. "Wonder if it works."

"I can try it," said Dekker.

It kind of worked. Ugh. That flush fluid was going to be brut disgusting after a few cycles. Well, most missions only laster a few hours, No one was expected to _live_ in a ridership.

They had a sorry meal of slightly stale protein bars, a little dried fruit, and as much musty water as they could drink. It was still chilly, and Ben was starting to feel it. Dekker was already shivering. "Let's go up top," he said. "Heat rises."

Yeah, their seats were probably more comfortable than the control room wall. "You go first, Moonbeam. You're wobbly."

They made it up there OK. Dek found the cabin light control and turned it down. Ben listened to his audio feed for a few minutes: someone was swearing a lot about the dock controls and the missing manuals. 

Dek was already asleep. His breathing seemed kind of fast. _Don't think about that. You're not a medic. Fuck, I'm tired_.

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When he woke up, Ben felt like crap. He was woozy, and his head hurt.

Dek was still out, turn half on his side. His breath was coming really fast, and his color look bad. Ben turned the lights up: still bad. "Dek! Wake up!"

His eyes opened halfway. "Ben ... ? I feel terrible."

"Me too, partner. Hell." He checked his reader: they'd been out about 9 hours. No sounds were coming from the docking control room. The pumps were still going: fuel was at 30%. Shouldn't it be better than that?

"We should eat," he said.

Dekker tried to throw up. "No! Fuck! Stop that!" said Ben. They had no fucking spare clothes, and nothing much to mop up with either, There was only a small box of disposable wipes down in the supply cubby,

Dek's retching slowed, stopped. His eyes were rolled back in his head.

"Benjy cher, how's your breathing?"

_Huh?_

His breathing was fast, like Dekker's.

"What does my screen say, Benjy?"

He looked around. No one. No one was in here but him and Dekker. "Meg?"

No one.

"Ship diagnostics, Benjy. Wake up!"

His chest hurt. He fumbled his way out of his seat and dropped to his knees, then crawled to Meg's seat. The ship systems screens were still up. His fingers wouldn't work right on the controls. Finally he made it back to the main screen, then selected the cabin life-support diagnostics.

Flashing orange light. Cabin oxygen: near critically low. Oh hell.

Ben dragged himself into the co-pilot's seat, his eyes trying to go shut. "Meg, please ... ."

He watched his hand twitch on the controls. Divert some fuel to life support atmosphere conversion. Cabin ventilation: high. Icy wind blew out of the ducts. He slumped in the chair, shivering. Gradually, his head cleared.

Crap, crap, crap. He still felt like shit. He had to have been pretty out of it not to notice that.

He reached over and checked Dekker's pulse, using the co-pilot's chrono. About 130. That seemed high, but Dek's breathing sounded better. Ben sighed and turned back to the ops screens, working his way through them meticulously. He dithered a moment over the internal temperature: it was cold, but if he turned it up too high. someone could notice from dockside.

He went down and fetched the thermo sheet, tucked it around Dekker. Pretty Boy sighed in his sleep, and his lips went "Meg." Ben made himself not twitch. _Think about something else._

_No, scuz, not about the fact that your carrier has jumped out of the system and you're trapped on a station with your concussed partner and a carrier full of Mazianni._

They needed better food. Maybe some more clothes. Hell, they really needed V-HUD helmets and flightsuits, if _Sekhmet_ was actually going to be any good to them. Yeah, that's something he could do, instead of sitting here, waiting for the Mazianni to find them.

He checked the big data download that he'd started last night. Finished. Great, maybe he could get some better surveillance data coming through now that that wasn't clogging things up. He launched some searches of the big data blob and found the latest station plans, then kited off to re-set the parameters on his data feed from the station internal surveillance system. Some techs in central were beefing about what he'd done to the station. They couldn't arm the gunports near the docks, and a number of surveillance cameras weren't working for them. Ben was proud of that one: he hadn't done just the dock near _Sekhmet_ because that would have revealed that someone wanted to hide what was happening there. No one seemed to be suggesting sending more marines down to White docks. He pulled up the station plans and took note of likely supply storage areas.

"Oh," said Dekker, startling him. "We're still here."

"Yeah, sorry," said Ben. "Not my idea of a good time either. How're you doing?"

"Things hurt like hell. But I'm tracking better. Maybe."

"I wasn't tracking that hot myself," said Ben. "We were running out of oxygen."

"Oh," said Dekker, blankly.

"Yeah, but it's fixed. Can you eat? I need your head as together as it can get."

"Yeah, I'm even a little hungry. Even though I know there's nothing but protein bars."

"I got some ideas about that. Can you climb down?"

Dekker pushed the sheet aside and rolled slowly out of his seat. He was limping badly on one side. "I'll go first," said Ben.

Dek didn't fall on him, and once he was down, he seemed to be walking better. Ben said so. "Ben, trust me," said Dek; "I got several hundred hours in this getting back after being beat the hell up thing."

Breakfast was the same as dinner last night. Then they went back up, and Ben started drilling Dek on the surveillance feeds. They didn't see anyone in White dock while that was going on. "Think you got it," said Ben. "Look, I think I found where flight crew gear might be stowed."

"You're fucking kidding me!" said Dek, which was some high-powered swearing for him.

"No, I'm not. We brut need flight suits and V-HUD helmets. Wanna fly this baby without 'em?"

"Hell," said Dekker, throwing himself back into his chair. Then he winced. Touchy sumbitch, and not tracking as well as he claimed, either.

"Come on down again, you need to close the hatch. Keep monitoring, come back to the dock view here every few minutes. Put your comm plug in your ear: I'll signal when I'm ready to come back in."

The exit operation went smoothly. God, standing on the empty dock felt exposed. Ben crossed the open space as quickly and quietly as he could, heading for a door he'd unlocked remotely.

_Hot damn, good pick!_. The door opened on a corridor lined with lockers. Some of the doors were open, many showing empty space but some of them stacked with gear. It was crazy, because the stuff wasn't arranged like any one person's gear: you'd find four dockie coldsuits and a skimmer pilot's simple V-HUD helmet in one place, then a rider flight suit buried behind three grimy pairs of machinist's coveralls, one size fits none. No rider V-HUD helmets, but he found four flight suits, one of which was his actual size and one of which might do for Dekker. And there was a door at the end of the corridor, also locked. He pulled out his reader, located the circuit, and got it open.

OK, this big closet was the real motherlode. Eight rider V-HUDs, some marine armor, patch kits for suits, all kinds of tool sets, head lamps, work gloves, armor repair crap, gear bags, and two brand-new flight suits, Unfortunately, neither of the new suits would fit. He checked the helmets over carefully. One of the newer-looking ones needed a new battery, but hell, there were two 10-packs of the things. He took both, why not? Then he set to rolling up the suits he'd got out of the lockers and putting all the loot into the bags.

He locked up on the way out, just because. The dock still looked empty. He checked the approach corridor feed: no one.

He pinged the comm channel. "Dek? Wake up."

"I'm awake!"

"Get ready to open the hatch, I'm coming across the dock now."

The hatch opened right on the tick. _Good job, partner._. Dekker grabbed one of the bags from him and then eased the hatch shut. "Wow," he said, looking at what was on the bag.

"We need to get those helmets prepped. I got a suit repair kit if we need it."

They spent some time dumping their macros and config data from their readers into the helmets, then stowed all the flight gear up in the cockpit and had lunch, if you could call it that.. And they were back to waiting around for the Mazianni to find them.

Hell if. '"I'm going back out after food and meds, Dek-boy. Got a good idea where it all is now."

"You're crazy, Ben."

"You won't say that when I'm back with some primo MREs. Stop worrying. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"If they're in as good shape as these protein bars, it's not worth it."

"Dek, we don't know how long we'll be waiting."

Dekker's lips were all dry, apparently. "You're going to end up on _Australia_ ," he said, "Or in station orbit, in your skivvies." He was probably thinking about Cory Salazar, or maybe his first Hellbuner crew.

"No, not me. Come on, let me out again." 

"Ben, I could give you an order."

Oh crap. What a time for Dekker to remember that he was supposed to be in charge. Ben got control of his temper. "Mr. Dekker. We'd both be better off, more alert, better able to fly this beat-up rider if we had better food and some mild painkillers. I have this routine down. Permission to execute?"

Dekker locked eyes with him and finally broke the staring contest to give him a disgusted wave. Ben dumped the wrappers from the bars into the disposal and grabbed the empty gear bags. Dekker followed him, radiating gloom, and handled the hatch.

Dockside empty, check. The access hatch in the corridor from the control room, check. He palmed the lock panel, and it opened as he'd expected. The space beyond would not let him stand, so he had to clamber along on hands and knees. There was some safety lighting, which came on automatically. He made sure he could open the hatch from the inside, then headed off in the direction of the space he'd IDed as a supplies warehouse.

OK, here was another access panel, right where the plan said. He eased it open—and heard voices. 

He moved the panel almost shut and sat, listening.

"How much more?"

"One more load."

"Kitchen got all they need?"

"Yeah. Cook's bitching about no fresh stuff, but he's got frozen, he'll live." 

Ben stayed where he was, listening to small talk, things being put on shelves, the empty loading cart being wheeled out. He finally signaled Dek with the sound turned off and typed in "Delayed at warehouse. Guys loading stuff. Chill."

"Damn, Ben," was the response. Ungrateful little scuz.

The Mazianni eventually came back with the loaded cart and a woman with a slight accent, who started picking things off the shelves to take away with her. She was from the freighter, presumably, because one of the guys said "Tell your captain that's it. The stuff you brought us is only worth so much."

"I'll tell him," she said, her voice cold.

More noises of things being put onto shelves. Finally, they all left. He heard the lightly loaded cart being wheeled out with them. He counted to a thousand, then opened the hatch slowly and climbed out, stiff as Morrie after a long run.

The tight beam of the little headlamp illuminated row and rows of reusable plastic crates of various sizes. Some of the labels were scratched and hard to make out. But here were some med supplies. He loaded some painkillers, vitamins and minerals, insta-cold packs, a first aid kit. Then he found some clothes and got them each some clean underwear and socks.. 

He was beginning to get the logic of the place. The stuff farthest from the corridor entry was lighter, or less in demand, or both. He worked his way toward the main entryway and spotted some freezer doors let into the wall on the side of the warehouse opposite the little hatch. And the shelves facing them had crates of ready-to-eat meals, jugs of shelf-stable drinks, boxes of candy, protein bars, and snack packets.

He grabbed several meal boxes, vegetarian ones, and then decided what the hell and got Dekker one with some kind of dried meat. He picked up a few bags of nuts, several protein bars, and some candy. That filled the first carry bag.

He walked back to the hatch and placed the full bag well inside and thought for a minute. OK, maybe some more food. Juice. They might be stuck for a long time. He was leaving things tidied up: no one would suspect.

Suddenly the door opened, letting in a gush of light from the corridor. "No, she brought two odd case lots, no one's going to miss just one bottle. I'll show you." 

Crap. Ben snapped off his headlamp and scurried as quickly and as silently as he could to the end of the row and ducked around it. Footsteps headed toward where he'd been sorting out juice. "Let's see," said the voice. The man almost sounded familiar by now. "Here we go." Ben heard a case lid being pulled off, then chinking of heavy glass bottles against each other. "... that," said the voice, quieter, like he was talking to himself now. "... vodka, that's easy... ."

"You scummers did a crap job on this," said a new voice, a woman.

"What d'you mean?" said the man. Sound of a glass bottle being put down on a plasteel shelf, sound of a bin lid being snapped back in place.

Footsteps, heading closer to Ben's position. "Look, you got half a bin of juice bottles on the floor, there."

Ben set the bag with his single bottle of juice gently on the floor. Yeah, he'd been dithering between apple and tropical punch (100% juice, guaranteed!). He stood up, his back against the shelves, and tried to make himself as flat as possible.

There was a brief silence. Then: "That ain't right," said the man, and Ben heard the bin of liquor bottles being put back on the shelf. "We left it all squared away, 'bout half an hour ago."

"Probably just some greedy little scut trying to snag a bottle," said the woman. "Just put it back, and let's get going."

"Nyet, Adzy. It was locked. Get the lights, I got a bad feeling about this."

_Oh shit!_. Ben left the bag and headed for the next aisle, then toward the back wall and the hatch. The main lights came on just as he made the turn. He broke into a run, still trying to be quiet.

"Hey!" shouted the woman, Adzy. "Get back here, you crook!" She sounded like she was in a straight line behind him. He duck into the next row of shelves.

"Who?" called the man.

"Fleet, looks like," she yelled Ben heard running footsteps behind him.

"I'll take the other end!" the man said, and heavier footsteps crossed the length of the room several rows away.

Crap, they'd have him bracketed, and he was still several rows away from the access hatch. He spotted a gap in the orderly rows of large bins on the shelf to his right and climbed in. Yeah, there was a space behind the bins. He wriggled forward and tried to settle his breathing.

He had no illusions that they wouldn't find him, eventually. He maneuvered his reader out and flicked on the display. "Dek, trapped in warehouse. Set yr reader to receive. Ack?"

"Ack. Maz. see you?"

"RECEIVE, ACK?"

"Receiving."

Ben marked the station plan with his location, the location of the hatch door with the bag of goods, saved it, flagged it DEK READ NOW, then TARGed all his data files and sent the data ball to Dek's reader. He could hear the Mazianni using com to call for backup. The fleet marines had heat-sensing equipment, he knew that: their own guys on _Norway_ had explained search tactics to the rest of them, once. His reader finished sending the data archive, "Got? Ack?" he sent.

"Got. What now?"

"Erase my reader. U got data. Take rider get out."

He could hear more voices, more footsteps arriving.

"Hell f I leave u!!" sent Dek.

"Go fool Dek go!" Ben broke off the communication, got the command line, gave the order for destructive erase.

_Erase DT? Y/N_

All his own data, back through his UCD training days.

Crap. **_Y_**

_Erasing. . ._

"Sensor's showing something, maybe ...," said a new voice, far too near by.

The reader's screen broke up, resolved. _Welcome to your reconditioned RSTA Cosmova Reader! Config now? Y/N_

Ben pried open the lid of the nearest bin, dropped the blank reader into it, snapped the lid closed. And waited.

"What the hell was that?" said the sensor operator.

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Dek slumped into _Sekhmet_ 's pilot's seat, staring at his reader screen. He shut off his comm and dropped it on the flattest panel. No, not Ben. Not slippery, conniving, super-intelligent Ben. And what did they have left? Him. The black hole of luck. Every person who stayed in his vicinity lost.

_I promise you, I'll never lose another crew._

The thought stung. He had failed them.

If he was going to think like that, he might as well shut down _Sekhmet_ and walk to Green Dock, turn himself in to the Mazianni.

_You being a head case, Captain Moonbeam?_

He rubbed his eyes. _Damn, Ben. Damn you._

Ben had erased his reader. That meant there were things on it the Mazianni shouldn't know. Chances are it was all on Dek's reader now.

He wasn't a programmer in Ben's terms, but he knew enough that he could guess some of it: the passwords for station accounts Ben had either taken over or invented fresh, or other information that might help the Mazianni take their station back. Start there.

He looked at the data blob, then checked his system references for how to decompress it. It expanded into hundreds of files, all organized some way that made sense to Ben. But right at the root of the new storage structure was a labeled pointer: DEK READ NOW.

What it pointed to was the station plans, same as Ben had given him earlier along with the tools for monitoring everyplace the station had security cameras and audio pickups. But no, a couple things were marked on this set, big attention-grabbing markers.

_Found me here._

And nearby, _Bag of supplies_

The place where they'd found Ben was a huge room, with rows of long, rectangular shapes in lighter lines. A warehouse, Ben had said, so that was likely shelves. The bag was right on the other side of warehouse wall, and yeah, that cross-hatched space in the wall was likely an access. So he could get to those supplies by sneaking through the maintenance crawlways. He'd watched Ben leave for this fateful jaunt, he knew where the nearest entrance was.

Chances are Ben was not in the warehouse any longer. Where would they take him?

Onto _Australia_? Probably not without talking to the captain, Edger. If I were a marine with a doubtful prisoner on station, where would I put him? Yeah, the tank: Detention.

He referred to the plans. Detention was on a different level than the warehouse. He traced the line between them, through the corridors. Then he started bringing in the surveillance along the route, starting at the entrance to Detention. 

"... captain," said a voice.

"Oh yeah?" said Ben. Dekker's pulse picked up. "He'll thank you for that," Ben continued.

"What d'you know about our captain?" said a third voice, aggressive.

"Everyone knows who _Australia_ 's captain is," said Ben. "He licks Mazian's ass for him, when they get together."

There was a thud and a faint groan.

"Rubio, quit it, we need more info," said the first voice. "How do you know our ship name, scut?"

"Oh please," said Ben, his voice muffled. "It's on your sleeve patches. Are you all this slow?"

"Rubio!" yelled a woman's voice. "He's trying to make you hit him, stop!"

_Yeah, Rubio, stop,_ thought Dek.

"Can you open the door, Adzy?" said the calm guy.

"I'll try," said the woman. There was a pause and then a click. "There," she said.

Dekker looked at the surveillance controls again. There was a camera marked inside Detention. He switched to that.

A grainy image blossomed of a bare-looking room with a desk bolted to the wall and a row of doors opposite. Two marines in light body armor appeared in the camera view, holding Ben between them. It look like the camera was mounted right above the door to the corridor. Ben had a trickle of blood running from his nose. A thin woman in Fleet marine casuals followed. "How do you want to run this?" she said.

"Question him, hit him until he answers," said the smaller guy, who must be Rubio.

"Because that's been working so well," said Adzy. She went over to the desk and rummaged around. 

"Well, we haven't asked him anything," said Rubio.

The big guy sighed, "You've got some patches yourself," he said to Ben. "I see the ship patch is gone."

"What if it wasn't a ship patch?" suggested Ben.

"Well, your name patch looks a lot like mine, except 'Pollard' instead of 'Coombs,'" said the big guy."

Ben shrugged as best he could with his arms held behind his back. "Same cheap factory, probably." Rubio wound up his free arm and hit Ben under the chin with a punch, so his head snapped back.

"Private Rubio!" barked Adzy, straightening up; "Cease and desist!" She came over with a set of handcuffs and put them on Ben, whose head was lolling. "You've fucking knocked him out, you goddamn amateur. Go get Lieutenent Vasilev for me. Tell him we need help with a trespasser. Tell it to him straight, Rubio." 

"Yes ma'am, Sergeant Shu." Rubio let go of Ben, saluted, and left. Big man Coombs lowered Ben to the floor. Adzy Shu knelt down and went through a basic set of vitals: pulse, breathing, checking Ben's pupils.

"Roll him on his side. No, the other side." She looked down at Ben, rubbing her jaw. "Pollard. Why does that sound familiar? How old would you say this guy is, Coombs?"

Coombs was hunkered down by Ben's prone form. He cocked his head and looked Ben in the face. "Forties, maybe? Just short of rejuv, if he could get it."

"Damn," she said, her voice soft and worried. She tapped the comm piece in her ear. "Paging Lieutenant Tyson. Lieutenant Charles Tyson." 

God, Dekker had never expected to hear that name again. He couldn't remember on which ship Custard Charlie had ended up; it wasn't like he had any reason to track the guy. Shu was nodding and saying, "Yes. Yeah. Have him call me as soon as he's free."

"You figure he got left behind by _Norway_ , right?" said Coombs.

"It's either that or _Jin Ju_ ," she said. "I don't think some merchanter would be drawing fire like he did."

_Attention!_ said the loudspeakers. Both marines looked up. _Freighter Jin Ju has made jump._

Coombs looked at Shu and shrugged. "Well, if he was one of theirs, they don't seem to have cared."

The door opened again, revealing Rubio and a slimmer guy in an immaculate Fleet lieutenent uniform. He had a duffel bag with him. "This is your trespasser?" he asked Shu.

"Yessir. We trying to get basic info out of him so we can decide how to go with him. We found him picking over supplies in Cargo 1. Not sure how he got in there, or who he is. Those look kind of like Fleet coveralls, but ... ."

"He was knocked unconscious?"

"I did it," said Rubio. He didn't sound sorry.

"Useless. You will not touch the prisoner again except under my orders, and you will follow my orders. I will report all of this to your command in any case. What I report will depend on your actions." He set his duffel on the desk and opened it, then took off his uniform jacket and hung it carefully on the desk chair. From the bag, he took a white smock and some surgeon's gloves, which he put on. Then he withdrew a small plastic case, which he opened on the desk. "We will start simply," he said. "Take off the cuffs, roll him on his back. You, big man, hold his feet. Shu, Rubio, you each take an arm."

They followed his orders and got Ben set up like a letter T. The lieutenant knelt next to the arm pinioned by Shu and rolled up Ben's sleeve, then retrieved several small objects from his case. He checked Ben's vitals, then did something to Ben's arm. Dekker recognized the set-up for putting drugs into a patient. Then the guy produced a tiny packet that he tore open and held under Ben's nose.

Ben stirred, coughed, and bucked against the marines holding him down. "Shit," he said, clearly.

"Please remain still," said the lieutenant.. "We have some questions."

Ben breathed hard for a second and said, "That's funny, so do I."

The lieutenant ignored this. "You name is Pollard, according to your chest patch. What is the rest of it?"

"Eat me."

"Not an option," said the lieutenant, unmoved. He put one thumb against Ben's collarbone and pressed inward, hard. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a moan. "Observe, Private Rubio. Hard blows are not necessary. Talk to us, Pollard. Full name, affiliation by ship or station, rank or professional position. What you were doing, aside from stealing our supplies.'

Ben opening his eyes and glared. That was all.

"We can keep this short, or I can take other measures," said the officer. "I have here some very fine medications from Union, for example. However, patients questioned by such methods aren't always the same afterward."

Dekker's gut felt cold and weak. Suddenly Shu seemed to lose hold of Ben's arm. Ben brought his arm to his face and seemed to be trying to pull the drug port out of his arm with his teeth.

"Sergeant Shu!" barked the officer. "Pay attention!" He grabbed Ben's arm, dug his thumb into what must have been another pressure point. 

"Fuck!" screamed Ben. His arm stopped flailing.

"Sorry, Mr. Vasilev! I got some information I was asking about. Lieutenant Tyson wants an image of this guy," She reached into a pocket, pulled out her reader, lined it up with Ben's face.

Vasilev got Ben's arm laid out again, and he and the two marines watched Shu. "Yessir. Shoot, I thought I remembered that name! No sir, Lieutenant Vasilev is questioning him. Well, with drugs. Oh." She put her reader back. "Sir, you're not to drug him. We know who he is. This is Benjamin Pollard from the original Hellburner crew." 

Rubio looked blank, but Coombs and Vasilev looked impressed. "Well then," said the lieutenant. "What are we doing with him?"

"He's talking to the captain about that."

"In that case, I would suggest we put him in a cell for now," said Vasilev. "Hold him firmly while I remove the port." He did so with fussy, angry little movements, as though he was actually furious at not getting to mess with Ben's brain. He finished off by applying an adhesive bandage on the tiny wound and rolling down Ben's sleeve. Coombs and Rubio got Ben to his feet. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, and Dekker could guess what he was thinking: they'd be taking him on _Australia_ soon.

The cells seemed to open from the desk: Shu pulled open a drawer and did something, and one of the cells opened. The two marines shoved Ben into it. "Get him a blanket," said the officer, his voice still angry. Shu opened a panel that Dekker hadn't been able to notice in the grainy vid and got one.

"Is he safe to leave, sir?" she asked.

"He has no electronics or such on him?"

"No, sir. We checked."

"I would consider that odd. You should search more thoroughly where he was picked up. He may have hidden things at the site. I imagine he has a concussion, but how important that is will depend on the captain's intentions. Whether you leave him is your own affair. My duty is done here." He packed up his kit and left.

"Stiff sumbitch," said Rubio.

"Shut it, man," said Coombs. "You're already in plenty of trouble. He's going to talk to the major about you."

"Damn straight," agreed Shu. "Later, Pollard."

"We going to go back and check again for his gear?" asked Coombs.

"Hell if," said Shu. "We looked when we got him."

Dekker watched them leave, then stabbed at the controls, trying to get a view of Ben in the cell, but what he had was what there was.

It was almost alterday. He wondered what he should do. How long until Tyson got to talk to Edger? Dekker was sure that when he did, Edger would want Ben aboard _Australia_ , either to try to hire him or or make an example of him to piss off Mallory. 

This was just wasting time and building stomach acid. The memory of Captain Villy saying that almost made him smile. He could at least go after the supplies. And check Detention from time to time.

He stood up, feeling stable enough. His shoulder hurt like hell, but one thing about having had the crap beat out of him multiple times throughout the years: he knew how to power through bruises. He packed a small electronics tool kit and a protein bar into coverall pockets, checked the dockside for observers with the surveillance programs on his reader, and slipped out.

Crawling through the station accessways put him straight back to his teen years. The route to the warehouse was plain enough, and he found the bag right inside the hatchway. He sat for a moment and checked the Detention block. No change.

He went through the hatchway into the warehouse and looked at the crates, going row by row, stopping and listening. Clothes, bedding, machine parts, machine oil and other lubricants, cleaning supplies, medications, food, liquor. What he could have done with this when he was a kid ... .

_Hold that thought._

He snagged some vodka, boxes of alcohol wipes, solvents, oil. He moved them cautiously to the back rows away from the door. Sheets, toilet tissue, paper wipes. And some key small electronics and safety equipment. He eventually got it all into the crawlway and shut the door carefully. He went down a way from the warehouse hatch and settled down to an impromptu dinner of juice and one of the boxed meals Ben had put in the bag: pork jerky from Pell, seaweed-veggie snacks, crackers, After the stale protein bars, it tasted like luxury. Then he pulled out the reader and pored over the station diagrams.

Not a major fire, which would force the Mazianni to vent a section, just something slow and smoky. He found the waste disposal and recycling facilities: a good choice. The enemy might even assume it was innocent, some careless handling on the part of their own people. It was a third of the way around the cylinder from White Dock, not far from Green Dock but on a different level, and also on a different level from Detention.

He had to get moving.

Dekker took the supply bag back to the White Dock entry hatch. Then he started running loads down to the waste facility. With every load, he checked Detention. The lights had dimmed automatically. Once or twice he heard Ben whimper in his sleep, or curse. He'd check Green Dock too. Activity around _Australia_ 's hatch had slowed to almost nothing. With no shops, eateries, or sleeperies, there was little reason for crew to come and go. He did see a couple of loads of goods being loaded: either he'd been dead lucky in the warehouse, or there was another one somewhere, probably halfway around from the one they'd found. Possibly Captain Edger had gone to bed, ignorant of who was down in Station Detention.

There wasn't an awful lot of rubbish piled up in the bins, waiting to be sorted: that made sense, since the station had been empty when _Norway_ had arrived. But there was a certain amount of stuff in recycling. That gave Dekker another idea. He loaded up some old, cracked bins with ragged clothing, machine parts, empty food containers. He ran them up to the White Dock hatch.

It was 02:46 alterday when everything was set. He was beyond tired into hyped. He'd eaten another scratch meal by the White Dock door. Then he made the risky runs back and forth to _Sekhmet_ : the supply bag and the loads of rubbish. Detention was still quiet, when he checked, and so was Green Dock. Inside _Sekhmet_ , he opened a floor hatch in the tech control room. This was the alternative access to the load chamber for the chaff guns, which normally didn't come intp play when a rider was being prepped on a carrier. There were actually a couple of loads of proper chaff, which was OK. He filled the remaining hoppers with rubbish, including all the outdated food and medicines from _Sekhmet_ 's supply locker. He added the bins themselves as a final touch.

Then he made his cautious way back to the site of his fire. He spread out a nice bed of crumpled sheets, paper goods, and pressboard cartons. He doused it with flammables, which he had kept contained until then so the fumes wouldn't give the game away. He put on a breather and safety goggles, and then he got out the little arc lighter and set the whole mess going.

When it was smoking and smoldering unstoppably, he ducked back through the access hatch at the back of the facility , closed it firmly and headed for the Detention corridor.

The fire alarms started when he was most of the way there. _A fire has been detected in the waste handling facility! Fire crews, to stations. All other personnel stand clear and await orders._ He heard some running feet in the main corridors, but none in the side spurs, like the one that ended in the Detention facility. He disabled the door with Ben's program before he even exited the access hatch, and went inside.

The lights went on automatically, overwhelming the flashing red of the emergency light. Dekker shut the outer door and turned to the desk he'd seen on the video stream. The block of switches for the cell doors was easy to spot. He was just looking to double-check the cell number when Ben called "Don't leave me here, you shit-eating bastards!"

"Shut it, it's me," Dekker hissed. He unlocked the cell. Ben heard the click and pushed the door open. 

"What the fuck, it _is_ you!" He staggered out, then stopped and sagged against the wall. Dekker came over and shut the door again, then locked it from the panel.

"Come on, we got to get out of here," he whispered.

"Crap," said Ben. "I can barely move. They beat the hell out of me."

"I got some painkillers with me, be we got to get into the crawlways," said Dekker. "Come on, before someone remembers you're back here."

He put his arm around Ben's waist. When he pulled Ben's arm over his shoulder, Ben bit back a moan. "No, don't stop," Ben gasped.

Dekker got him out and then the three meters down the passage. Ben crawled into the hatch on his own. Dekker got him down around a corner and then pulled out the meds. The painkiller was in a preloaded injector, something they'd learned to use in safety and rescue training on _Norway_. He cleaned a spot on Ben's shoulder and pressed the barrel in. Ben twitched but made no sound. "Just sit for a minute," said Dekker. "I need to check what's up."

By the waste facility, marines in breathers and goggles were deploying foam spray. "What's up?" whispered Ben.

"Just a little distraction I set up," said Dekker, smug, and showed him the reader.

"You damn fool, they could've vented a section!"

"Ben, I used to do this as a kid. I know how it works. It wasn't that big a fire, but it was smoky as anything."

"On Luna? You're kidding."

"Wish I was, but nyet. We thought we were real rab. How's the pain? We need to get moving. They'll have time to think about something else soon. Plus it's almost mainday."

Ben moved his shoulders. 'Better. I think one of my arms might be broken, a little. And there was this sicko officer, he jammed his thumb into a nerve of something."

"Yeah, I watched. Wanted to tear his head off."

"Shit, you really got the hang of that stuff I put together." Ben got onto his hands and knees, grimacing. "Lead the way, Dek-lad."

It seemed to take forever, After maindawn, he just collapsed, They were still a hundred meters from the hatchway near the White Dock control room. Ben was shaking, his face wet with sweat.

Alarms went off again.

_Attention! Attention! An unauthorized vessel has dropped into the system! All personnel but marine companies 3 and 5 and civilian support, report to the ship and prepare to deploy! Attention!_

They looked at each other in the dim light of Dek's headlamp. "Who ... ?" whispered Ben.

"Alliance merchanters, Union, who knows?" Let's go, they're busy!"

Ben managed to get into his crawl again. They made the hatchway. No one was around. Dekker hoisted Ben up into a rescue carry across his shoulders. "Damn fool," Ben gasped as they crossed the dock. And there was _Sekhmet_ 's hatch, blessed sight, and then they were inside.

"Ben," said Dekker. "I need to get you up the ladder. We're breaking dock."

"You're crazy," Ben whispered.

"No. Whoever's out there is our best chance." Dekker looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "OK. Stay there. I'm getting you some water and juice."

He propped Ben up against the wall, that was really the floor, and got him a light meal. Ben ate eagerly enough once he had taken a few sips of juice. "Tastes good, doesn't it?" said Dekker.

"Yeah. I'm starving." He ate and drank with total concentration through a flask of juice, a bottle of water, crackers with tofu and veg spread, and two candy bars. Dekker helped him to the head.

"Lat's get you upstairs," he said.

"OK, ready as I'll ever be."

It was a slow operation, but they made it. Dekker helped Ben out of his stained coveralls and into clean underwear, then the borrowed flight suit. When Ben was settled onto the co-pilot's seat, Dekker changed and then got both of the helmets. He set up the water lines and the food concentrates, and then they helmeted up and strapped in. Dekker brought the ship's displays up. _Sekhmet_ was 100% fueled.

_Attention!_ called _Australia_ control, the voice thin and faint on the reader's small speakers. _Enemy ship identified as Norway, closing fast! Personnel on station clear the docks and take shelter! Undock in 2 minutes!_

They looked at each other, faces barely visible through the V-HUD displays. "That's our cue," said Dekker, and _Sekhmet_ withdrew her grapples. Ben engaged controls, setting life support into play, switching a few essential functions from the longscan board to his. "Take the chaff guns, too, Ben. Got 'em? OK. Power in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 -" said Dek.

_Sekhmet_ 's engines came on full. For a few seconds they stayed in place, held by the station grapples. Then with a jerk, she blasted free, pulling away from the station, scattering debris and sprays of water that flew into snow and ice. _Attention!_ screamed the tiny voice from the reader. _Breech in White sector! Seals engaging!_

Dekker rolled _Sekhmet_ away from the station and turned her so they could take in what was happening. There was _Australia_ , just starting to pull away, riders still grappled-to. And there was _Norway_ , approaching fast, and ahead of her, three riders.

"Ben, hit the chaff guns!"

Ben did it. Distantly, he realized that Dekker wanted to hide them from _Australia_ and its riders. What came out in front of them was not just the orderly flakes of chaff, but a whole raft of crap. "What the hell?"

"Make them think we're busted open, I hope." Dek brought them farther around, pointed away from the station, and hit the mains hard. They were headed for _Norway_ 's nadir. "Ben, put on the caller signal."

r

Ben reached for the control, his hand shaking, then stopped. "It'll say _Egypt_!

"No, I fixed it! Do it, before we catch one of our own guys' rounds!"

God, his arm hurt. Ben punched the call button. _Norway. Norway. Norway ... ._

One of the riders passed over them: _Thor_ , headed for _Australia_. The black blister that was a rider ship blossomed into a glowing, expanding cloud. Another glow rose from _Australia_ 's far side, and a _Norway_ rider appeared, strafing the carrier's navigation structures at close range.

_Norway_ herself was in range for her ordnance now. Ben could almost see the large shells as they drove toward _Australia_. And that was the end of it: _Australia_ joined _Tibet_ and the other victims of Conrad Mazian.

Dekker cut back the engines and brought _Sekhmet_ about so they could watch the mop up. As he did so, they both noticed a hissing whine. "Oh, crap," said Ben, looking at life support readouts on the V-HUD.

"What is it?"

"Damn, we have a leak somewhere. Something must have cracked under stress. We're losing air."

"You're kidding."

"No, that station wasn't a shipyard, they probably never tried to check the hull integrity. Dek, I need your hands. We need to shift most of the fuel to atmosphere conversion. I can't ... my hands are shaking too bad."

Dek unbelted and eased himself over. Ben gave him directions, same as Meg had that night ... was it only last night?

The comm hailed them. " _Sekhmet_ , you aren't one of ours, What is this BS?'

"Hello, Meg," said Dekker.

There was a stunned silence. Then: " _Dek?_

"Yeah, I got Ben here too. Hey, we could use a tow or something, as soon as you can. This crate's losing atmosphere like crazy."

"Hell, stay put! Seal your suits if you have to. Let me tell everyone the news!"

And so _Freya_ , with Quevado at the helm, towed them back to _Norway_

★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★   ★

When Ben woke up next morning, he couldn't figure out why his arms weren't working. "Sal," he said, "Have you got my arm pinned?"

"No," she said from the doorway. "Doc Sena put them both in splints last night. Don't you remember?"

He couldn't, not really. "This is embarrassing as hell to ask, but how'm I supposed to piss?"

Sal came over and sat on the edge of the bunk. "She said I could take it off when you woke up, but you got to be careful." She pulled apart the fastenings that held the splint in place around his arm and put the pieces on her own bunk, then helped him stand up. 'You sure you can make it? I can go with."

"Oh, come on. A man's got some pride."

"Hey, it's nothing I haven't seen before, Benjy."

"Is he awake?" called Meg from the outer room.

"Yeah, he is," Sal called back. "Get his breakfast, OK?"

"On it."

He mostly managed the actual operation himself, but Sal had to help him wash up. "Is my arm actually broken or what?" he asked.

"Sena says a fracture, but it's all in place. You'll need that splint for three weeks. The other one, only until your arm works better. Dek told us some bastard pinched your nerves in there. But it's healing. Does it feel better?"

It did, although he wasn't going to be holding a pool cue anytime soon. "Yeah, some."

"Get back in bed, cher," Sal said.

He wanted to argue, but it seemed kind of pointless: there wasn't anything else he felt like doing. "Where's Dek?" he asked, when he was settled in and propped against a couple of pillows.

"Right here," said Dekker, outside the door.

Sal opened it. Dek walked in holding a tray, which he set on the floor. Ben caught the smell of hot cereal, sweet and creamy. His mouth was suddenly watering. "Give me that, you sumbitch. I'm starving!"

Sal laughed and went out. He heard her talking to Meg quietly in the other room. Dek picked up the cereal bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. He spooned up a bit and held it out to Ben.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Ben.

"Yeah? What are you going to hold the spoon and bowl with, Ben? One arm is tied up, and the other is shaking like an old man's."

"Just give me the damn spoon, you little shit. You can hold the bowl for me."

The result was a spoonful of hot cereal on Ben's tee shirt. "Crap," muttered Ben. "OK, you win."

"Manners," said Dekker. "Say please."

"Please," said Ben, venom in his voice. Dekker fed him a spoonful of cereal. It was the best thing he'd tasted in a year. "If you ever tell anyone about this, you're a dead man, Dek-boy."

"I'm sure," said Dek, grinning.


End file.
